


shadows who had shadows

by novajanna



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Batman AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-17
Updated: 2010-06-17
Packaged: 2018-10-31 21:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10908192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novajanna/pseuds/novajanna
Summary: The story of the Bat Man has become a myth, forged by fantastic rumours from criminals and the upper classes alike, though it is the poor who see him as a true hero.He is a man who dresses all in black, with a long cape and a mask fashioned after the likeness of a bat, and he is known for attempting to rid London’s underbelly of its criminals. Watson had never been entirely sure that he was real, and when the topic arose in polite conversation, he simply stated that it was something that had to be seen to be believed





	shadows who had shadows

  
When John Watson returns to England after the war, he has a great deal of trouble finding work. Most established practices are not looking for new doctors and he simply doesn’t have the capital to start his own. He is beginning to lose hope of finding steady employment in his chosen line of work when he one day strikes up a conversation with a man sitting near him in the betting hall.

“I hear that Mr. Holmes is looking for a physician,” the man says once Watson has explained his circumstances. “You’d have to be mad to work for him, though, from what I hear.”

“Mr. Holmes?” Watson thinks the name sounds familiar, but he can’t quite place it.

“You haven’t heard of him?” The man looks shocked. “He’s one of those rich folk who seems to come by his money in strange ways. Always causing a bit of a stir at parties, or so I hear.”

“And he’s looking for a physician?” Watson asks, curious. “One would think he’d have his own by now, someone respected.”

“One would think that,” the man agrees. “But I hear he’s a bit strange, wants it to be kept private. Might be worth a look, if you’re that desperate.”

***

Watson is indeed desperate enough to contact Mr. Holmes, and he’s called to a rather formidable looking mansion not long after.

Watson sits nervously in a plush chair, fiddling with his cane as he gazes around the room. It is ornately furnished, which is to be expected for a man of Holmes’ wealth and stature, but the hundreds of books along the walls are somewhat of a surprise. In the evening light he can only make out a few of the titles, but it seems as though there are at least two shelves devoted to medical texts, and he hasn’t the faintest idea why Holmes would need medical reference books in his private collection. It is the first of many mysteries relating to one Sherlock Holmes.

After hearing of the job opportunity, Watson had made a point of listening to every tall tale relating to Holmes. It seemed as though every time he appeared at an event there were wild stories told about the night’s proceedings, and though Watson was not partial to gossip, he was admittedly rather intrigued by the tall tales. The man was infamous in both high society and low society in London, well known for being both a terrific eccentric and a bit of a recluse.

Holmes walks into the room quickly and Watson startles, sitting up straighter in his chair. Holmes stands a few paces in front of him, head cocked to the side as he gazes at Watson, who tries not to shift uncomfortably under the scrutiny.

“So,” Holmes says, loud and abrupt. Watson smiles slightly.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” He stands and reaches out to shake Holmes’ hand, and is met with a much stronger grip than he’d anticipated. He holds onto Watson’s hand for longer than is usually polite and gives him a searching look, and Watson feels himself flush slightly under Holmes’ gaze, hand still warm against his own.

“And a pleasure to meet you, too, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replies after a long moment, letting go of Watson’s hand and falling back into his chair to stretch out, drumming his fingers on the arm rest. “If you are to be my physician, I will need your guarantee of utmost discretion, not just about my health, but about my general comings and goings as well.” He fixes Watson with a stern gaze. “And I will know if you’re lying, Doctor. You would be required to reside here. You would have to be willing to work very odd hours, I’m afraid.”

“Yes, I am aware,” Watson responds, “It was mentioned in the advertisement. I have no problems at all working under flexible hours, Mr. Holmes-”

“I can imagine that wartime hours are not particularly routine,” Holmes says in agreement, and Watson is agreeing before he realizes exactly what Holmes has said.

“But how did you-?”

“There are quite a number of small details that give you away, Dr. Watson,” Holmes replies, giving his own slight smile. “But I haven’t the time to list them for you, I’m afraid. I have somewhere to be this evening, but I am also in dire need of a doctor. I’d like to hire you, if you still find the stipulated arrangement satisfying.”

“I – yes, of course,” Watson says. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Holmes replies. “Finding a doctor who is willing to work under such…unconventional circumstances is not an easy task. Now, if you will excuse me, Mrs. Hudson will show you to your room.”

***

In the time Watson’s been gone, London has changed significantly. There are many curious stories about strange men appearing in odd costumes, people who seem to have superhuman abilities. It is not always clear who is working for the greater good and who is working for evil, and it seems impossible to guess who these people are and why they do the things they do. It is even believed that one such masked man is in league with the Queen, one who goes by the name of Captain Britain.

Watson would think it was all a load of rubbish if he hadn’t seen these superhuman encounters with his own eyes on more than one occasion; he has seen the fights in the streets, capes flapping in the wind. It has the odd effect of making him feel at once safer and more vulnerable in London than he ever was before the war.

Watson mentions this to Holmes one morning as they sit sipping their tea. He’s scanning a newspaper article about the recent assistance of Captain Britain in the war. “I wonder what it is this man does that is so remarkable,” Watson says, and Holmes doesn’t even look up before he scoffs.

“There is nothing at all remarkable about that man,” Holmes says, idly flipping through his newspaper. “He is simply wearing a ridiculous outfit and parading around.”

“I suppose…” Watson agrees, looking down at the image of Captain Britain posing majestically by the water.

“It doesn’t take a genius to dress up in a silly costume, Dr. Watson,” Holmes says, and he fixes Watson with a stern gaze, but he’s smirking ever so slightly, and Watson cannot help but smile back.

“But he must have some power beyond that of you or me!” Watson exclaims.

“Perhaps,” Holmes shrugs. “Or perhaps he has simply found a good gimmick.”

“That may be true,” Watson allows after a few moments, and turns the page, his elbow brushing against Holmes’ at the movement.

***

Holmes and Watson eat breakfast together every morning, regardless if Holmes requires medical attention or not.

There are some nights where Watson is awakened in the early hours of the morning to tend to Holmes’ injuries, which always seem abnormally grave for a man who seems to live a very comfortable, uneventful life. For all that Holmes attracts the attention of London’s gossips, his days are filled with quiet musings around the mansion; Watson often sees him sitting in the same chair for hours, a vacant expression on his face and a notebook open in his lap. Watson has heard stories that the man is something of a genius, and he often wonders what Holmes is scribbling in his notebooks.

For a quiet genius, Holmes seems to find himself in the most dangerous situations in the evenings, if his injuries are any indication. Though Holmes often brushes them off as though they are merely shallow cuts and light bruises, Watson has, in his short time working for the man, actually become somewhat concerned. There is no real reason that he can see for Holmes to be disappearing off into the night, and even less logic behind his many and varied injuries.

As they sit at breakfast each day they are mostly silent, though occasionally Watson will comment on a particularly fascinating article. Often they are of strange cases, odd mysteries happening around the city that the masked crusaders are somehow involved in. Holmes seems to have little patience for such stories, though he does indulge Watson in them.

“They truly believe in magic, do they?” Holmes says after Watson reads him an article about strange occurrences near the Thames, people who believe they have seen objects floating in the air, no string in sight. “It’s simple trickery, Dr. Watson.”

“These people seem to believe differently, Mr. Holmes.” Watson himself is not a particularly gullible person, but it seems as though these sorts of incidents are increasing, and Watson is becoming irked by Holmes’ smug skepticism. “There are eyewitness accounts-”

“It is quite easy to trick the eye, if you know what the eye is expecting,” Holmes replies, and Watson just frowns at the smirk on Holmes’ face and reads the article again.

***

There is only one time that Watson himself encounters a masked vigilante. He’s passing through the streets after meeting an old friend for drinks, and he hears a commotion in a dingy side street. He stops and peers around the corner, but the fog is rolling off the Thames and it’s dark enough as it is, shadows dipping across the jagged bricks. He can see two figures in a back corner, and he hesitates, watching before throwing himself into anything, though his hand clenches on his cane.

At first it seems like the larger man, tall and burly, will win the fight easily. He is dirty and bloody already, like he sees so many fights that he no longer has any need to wash his broken hands between them. The other man is dressed strangely, wearing some sort of a mask, all in black. At first it seems obvious to Watson that this smaller man is going to be left beaten to a pulp, left lying in the alley’s filth, and that Watson will have to help him as best he can afterwards.

There is a sudden flurry of movement, the sound of flesh against flesh, a sharp cracking that may even be bones breaking, and then the larger man’s slumped to the ground, groaning in pain. Watson is momentarily too stunned to notice the shadow against the wall, flickering dimly against the light from the street, but it seems to materialize in front of him, impossibly large and looming against the worn bricks. The shape is strange, like that of a man but with the pointed ears of some animal, a bizarre creature of the night.

The shadow moves across the wall, coming closer, and Watson sets off at a brisk pace, feeling unsettled as he walks home through the foggy streets.

***

Watson is not usually a particularly curious person; he has an interest in learning and in knowledge, to be sure, but he has never considered himself to be one who insinuates himself into others’ business. There is something about Sherlock Holmes, however, that seems to bring it out in him. In his short time living in the mansion, he has noticed Holmes’ late night trips, the way he slips down the hall and out the door almost silently, sneaking off into the night, and how he often returns in the early hours of the morning, needing medical attention. The wounds are often strange – deep cuts and large bruises, even the occasional gunshot wound – and it seems as though Holmes is involved in some particularly shady business.

Watson has entertained a number of possibilities. It may be that he is going to a brothel, and the reason that he chooses to walk instead of taking his private carriage is simply for discretion’s sake; when one is as wealthy and famous as Holmes is, one can never be too careful. But Watson rather quickly dismisses that idea. Objectively speaking, Holmes is a rather attractive man, and he attends enough functions and dinner parties that he would have no trouble finding women to court, and it simply wouldn’t explain the wounds. Unless, of course, Holmes’ eccentric tendencies carry over into the bedroom, which is not something that Watson dwells on for very long. The images that flash across his mind are far too vivid to entertain when Watson has to maintain a professional relationship with the man.

Watson considered slightly more damning prospects as well. It is, after all, entirely likely that Holmes partakes in cocaine on a regular basis. While being found to be addicted to any type of substance would not help Holmes’ public image, Watson doubts that Holmes would feel the need to sneak off into the underworld to supply his habit, and the likelihood of him sustaining serious injuries is slim.

The third and final – and most likely – possibility is that Holmes participates in fights, the kind that occurs in shady basements, bare-knuckled and bloody. The kind that one can place a bet on, if one was so inclined.

With this in mind, Watson follows Holmes out the door after waiting a careful length of time, searching for Holmes’ figure in the street’s darkness as soon as he’s stepped outside. The route Holmes takes is long and winding, and he frequently takes odd turns and moves at an erratically fast pace. It is almost, Watson thinks, as if he is trying to throw someone off his trail.

Holmes is known for being perceptive, something which Watson himself has encountered in the few weeks he’s been living with him, and so he hangs back a little, tries to be more discreet. It is not long before Holmes ducks into an alley, just behind some scraps of wood, and Watson hides himself as best he can in the filthy waste. Holmes quickly and methodically strips off his jacket, his shirt, and his trousers, and slips on black clothing, skin-tight and light. But it is not until Holmes puts on the mask that Watson realizes what is going on; Holmes is the Bat Man of London.

The force of the revelation strikes Watson full in the chest, but before he can even consider how to react, Holmes has pulled a hook contraption from the pack he has lying on the ground, and has shot it into the air to catch on the building’s ledge. As if it is as simple as walking, he climbs up the wall and pulls himself over the side, disappearing from Watson’s view.

***

The story of the Bat Man has become a myth, forged by fantastic rumours from criminals and the upper classes alike, though it is the poor who see him as a true hero.

He is a man who dresses all in black, with a long cape and a mask fashioned after the likeness of a bat, and he is known for attempting to rid London’s underbelly of its criminals. Watson had never been entirely sure that he was real, and when the topic arose in polite conversation, he simply stated that it was something that had to be seen to be believed.

It is safe to say that now he is a firm believer.

****

The next morning Watson is sent for early, before he’s even had time to have his cup of tea. He enters Holmes’ sitting room to find Holmes standing at the window. At first he appears relaxed, but Watson can see the way he tenses as Watson enters the room.

“You followed me last night, did you not?” Holmes turns and cocks his head to the side, giving Watson a considering look that he’s become quite familiar with. Watson stops in the middle of the room.

Watson is unsure of what to say – surely it is inappropriate to follow one’s employer on their personal business, however strange said business might be. He finally settles on the truth. “I was simply curious.”

“Evidently,” Holmes replies, and now he turns around, looking amused. Watson waits for a reprimand, but instead Holmes sits down and begins removing his shirt. “I have sustained an injury, a cut across my chest. I don’t believe it is serious, but it does need to be tended to.”

“Of course,” Watson says, and goes to fetch his surgical tools. It’s true that the wound is not very deep; Watson only has to clean it and bandage it to ensure there are no further complications. It is, however, a rather odd wound. “How did this happen?” Watson asks, smoothing down the edges of a bandage. “It is an unnaturally thin cut for how deep it is.”

“My own invention,” Holmes admits, and reaches for his jacket on the arm of the chair. He pulls out a thin piece of metal, one that has been forged in some way to take the shape of a bat. “It is an interpretation, if you will, of the Japanese shuriken, a type of throwing star.” Watson must look doubtful, because Holmes is quick to defend them. “They are very effective. Quite ingenious, in fact.”

“I see,” Watson replies wryly, and begins to pack up his medical kit.

“The only problem is, of course, that once I’ve thrown them, they are in the hands of my opponent. Normally I am quite adept at dodging, because criminals often telegraph their aim, but this man was a tad unpredictable.”

“Evidently,” Watson says, and he’s unsure of precisely how to react, so he settles for another dry smile. “Perhaps – no, I suppose that wouldn’t work.”

“Perhaps what, good doctor? Do you fancy yourself an inventor as well?”

Watson bristles. “I was simply thinking that perhaps designing the weapon in such a way that it will return to you would be a safer choice, and would save my bandages as well.” He clicks his bag shut and stands to leave, picking up his jacket from the chair behind him.

Holmes is looking at him, wide-eyed, and Watson feels strangely pleased at the awed look on Holmes’ face. “My dear Watson,” he murmurs, “Now that is a truly ingenious idea.”

***

A week later Holmes calls for Watson while it’s still dark out, having sustained a long, deep gash along his inner forearm, far too close to the veins for Watson’s liking. He works in silence, cleaning the wound and then beginning to stitch the skin closed as gently as he can.

“But why a bat?” Watson asks, breaking the silence, keeping a firm grip on Holmes’ wrist as he pulls the thread through his skin. Holmes’ skin is cold underneath his hand, and Watson can feel his pulse at his fingertips.

“Criminals are, by nature, a cowardly and superstitious lot, Watson,” Holmes manages, only wincing a little at the tug of the needle. “And I do spend a good deal of my time in darkness.”

***

Watson continues to follow Holmes out into the night, slipping home early to prepare his supplies, just as dawn is breaking over the smoky streets. Holmes must be aware that he is shadowing him, but he says nothing about it to Watson, and never looks at him while they’re out in the alley ways and shady back rooms of London’s nightlife.

Watson is continually amazed by the way Holmes moves, and the skills he has in hand-to-hand combat. Often he’s simply fighting a criminal in a back alleyway, and though he is sure to win in a direct confrontation, Watson still worries that a bullet will catch Holmes in the head or the chest. But though it seemed as though man could never be faster than a bullet, Watson has seen Holmes avoid shots from every angle and still emerge with only a few bad grazes.

Watson is bandaging one such wound when he asks Holmes about his fighting skills. There is something about these early morning medical procedures that seem to allow Watson more freedom in what he says to Holmes, as though it is the one place where Watson truly has the upper hand. “How did you learn to fight? As far as I was aware, most rich young men are not trained in oriental styles of combat.”

If Holmes is surprised that Watson is bringing up the late night sojourns, he doesn’t show it. “I taught myself.”

Watson is so surprised by this answer he stills in his work for a moment, genuinely baffled. “You taught yourself? Just like that?”

“It simply took a lot of time,” Holmes responds. “There’s an awful lot you can learn from merely observing, Watson. When will you comprehend that idea?”

Watson resumes his movements. “It seems a suspiciously simple answer to say that you taught yourself how to fight like an oriental master, Mr. Holmes.”

“I could teach you, if you’d like,” Holmes says, and gives Watson a piercing look. “That is, if you feel that you would be up to scuff.”

Watson considers for a moment. “I feel that I could handle it, yes.”

And so begins many hours of training, long days spent cooped up in one of the many unused rooms in the mansion, furniture pushed to the walls. Watson rolls up his sleeves and sweats through his shirt, becomes filthy from falling to the floor time and time again, and sustains many bruises and cuts of his own. It is a strange way to learn his body’s limitations, but Watson is grateful for the knowledge. It is rare that he makes it through an entire session without the pain in his leg flaring up, but for the most part he is able to continue, and he is fairly certain that Holmes is unaware of how the injury affects him. Some nights are worse than others, however, and he finds the need to take a hot bath, long after Holmes has left for his nightly patrol.

He has the most trouble seeing his opponent’s movements in the way Holmes would like him to be able to, incapable of anticipating Holmes’ next move to the point that he might actually block it.

“Watson,” Holmes says with a sigh, helping him up off the floor, “when will you learn to anticipate the way I’ve told you?” He taps Watson in the centre of the chest, moving closer to Watson and giving him an intent look that makes Watson falter for a moment in his actions. “Do not watch my arms or my legs or my head or my hips; it is far too easy to be tricked by those movements. But if you watch the centre of my chest, you will always be able to tell which direction I am moving in, regardless of what the rest of my body is doing.”

“Perhaps I am slightly disadvantaged in the fact that you are aware of both your own moves and my thought process, evidently,” Watson mutters, dusting himself off, and Holmes grins at him.

“Perhaps, yes,” Holmes agrees. “Why do you persist in dusting yourself off, Watson? You’re simply going to end up on the floor again.”

Watson scowls at him and shifts into a fighting stance as Holmes turns to come at him again.

***

One evening Mrs. Hudson walks into the study only to find Holmes shirtless and laid out on the couch, and Watson leaning over him with a scalpel, as Holmes had shards of glass and metal embedded too deep in his skin for the tweezers to reach alone. She shrieks, drops the tea, and runs away, and both men agree that perhaps they need to find another room to conduct medical procedures.

That is how Watson finds himself sneaking into an alleyway behind the house and crouching to enter through a small doorway, before going down a long, steep flight of stairs. When he gets down onto level ground, he is suddenly in an impossibly large workshop, one that must cover the entire block.

“This is astounding,” Watson breathes, surveying the various workbenches, experiments, and weapons around the room. The walls are covered in Holmes’ scribbled notes – just like the ones Watson is constantly picking up from around the house and piling neatly on Holmes’ desk in the study – and there are stacks of notebooks around the room.

“They are all my case notes,” Holmes says, startling Watson as he emerges from behind scraps of metal. He reaches for a book on the top of one of the piles and flips through it. “Notes about people who may be relevant in later cases, primarily.”

“I see,” Watson says, still firmly rooted to the spot. It is impossible to take in everything in the large room; there are far too many odd contraptions whose purpose Watson couldn’t even begin to guess, even materials and ingredients he doesn’t recognize. He peers closely at a sketch on the wall, a circular bat design. “What is this?”

“This is the baterang!” Holmes declares, holding a small but dangerous looking piece of metal out to Watson.

“The…baterang?” Watson asks, examining the object. It’s impossibly thin and fits perfectly in his hand, a solid weight.

“It is modeled, in part, after the Australian boomerang. So that it returns when I throw it, as we discussed.” Holmes gestures to the boomerang he has sitting on the workbench against the wall, one that looks reasonably authentic.

“Does it work?” Watson asks, and Holmes grins at him, taking the baterang from his hand.

“I feel that a demonstration is in order.” Holmes throws the piece of metal at a target, a piece of cloth hanging from the ceiling – it slices cleanly – and then ducks as it flies back to where Holmes is standing and ends up embedded in the wall behind him. He stands, looking only slightly ruffled. “I need to fix the one small glitch of how to catch it, of course…” he says, yanking the device out of the wall.

“Perhaps if you wore gloves,” Watson muses, thinking it to be an option that Holmes had already dismissed, but Holmes’ eyes light up, and he walks purposefully over to his workbench, mumbling to himself as he scribbles notes on a piece of paper. Watson leans against a pillar and watches him work.

“They would have to be made of some stronger material, of course…” Holmes pauses, gazing around at the materials in the room.

“I believe you had a wound that needed tending to?”

As Watson assesses the injury, Holmes continues muttering to himself, occasionally writing further additions to a page already covered in illegible scribbles.

***

When Watson has improved enough in his fighting skills to suit Holmes, he follows Holmes, always in his odd mask and sweeping black cape, out into the night. He dresses as he always would, and still carries a gun with him; though he has faith in Holmes’ abilities, he appreciates the efficiency of a gun, the distance he can keep between himself and his opponent. Holmes routinely scoffs at this, but Watson feels safer with it on hand, and London’s underworld is not the place to feel vulnerable.

Along with the petty thievery Holmes tries to tamp down on, working nightly routes in specific neighbourhoods, Watson trailing behind in case he’s needed, Holmes also works cases, following leads and trails as he would if he were a detective. Watson firmly believes that Holmes might have been a real detective if given the chance, and instead of spending his days inventing new contraptions for his family’s company, he would be out and about in the light of day, finding people and solving crimes. It seems as though Holmes feels a great deal of obligation to his family fortune, however, because though he could squander it on a lavish lifestyle, he is careful with his money. His many inventions have earned the company not only a greater profit, but also a grand reputation for being on the cusp of the technological age.

“It is curious how you go about finding your enemies,” Watson remarks one evening as Holmes surveys a dimly lit room. It’s small and cramped, barely any light finding its way in through the grimy windows. The room is packed from floor to ceiling with stacks of papers and odd boxes, everything looking as though it is just on the brink of tipping over. Watson himself can see no obvious clues amidst all the mess, but Holmes will have a lesson for him in a moment, as he always does; he loves to point out the small details Watson will inevitably have missed and to explain why they are relevant.

“It is much easier than waiting for them to find me,” Holmes responds, rolling a small piece of metal between his fingers. It seems like it might be a piece of a key, as though someone tried to jam the wrong key into a small keyhole. “And much more efficient.”

“It just seems an odd thing to seek out trouble,” Watson comments, gazing at a stack of books next to a thin mattress on the floor and dusting one off.

“I believe that trouble would find me regardless,” Holmes says, and there’s something odd in his voice, something that makes Watson turn around to look at him.

“Are you-”

But Holmes cuts him off. “Why, Watson! I believe you have found what we were looking for!” He takes the book from Watson’s hands and flips through it quickly, scanning the margin notes.

“I am not entirely convinced that trouble would follow you regardless of your exploits,” Watson tries again, but Holmes is hopelessly immersed in the scribbles, pointedly ignoring Watson.

Watson continues to wander the room as Holmes peers intently at the yellowed pages of the journal – probably a money log of some sort, judging by the columns – but it is only once Holmes has had his final perusal of the musty stacks that they continue on the trail.

***

Watson spends one morning wandering the mansion, peering closely at the many knickknacks along the shelves and the many paintings hung on the walls. There’s one in particular that catches his eye, a large portrait hanging in the stairwell landing, painted in deep, rich colours. The man and the woman in the painting seem impossibly regal, and yet there is a friendliness to their features as well, largely uncommon for portraits of the upper classes. The small plaque on the frame reads simply “In Memoriam: Phillip and Louisa.”

Watson hears a rattle and is broken out of his thoughts, stepping back from the painting. There’s another rattle, a little louder, and Watson walks upstairs and into Holmes’ study to find Holmes chained to his chair, still in his cowl and cape. Watson shuts the door quickly and then leans against it, surveying the situation.

Holmes rattles the chains keeping him locked to the chair. “I would appreciate it if you could unchain me, Watson.”

“I’m gathering evidence,” Watson responds, and smirks slightly at the unimpressed glare Holmes is giving him. “I am trying to determine how, exactly, you found yourself in this predicament.”

“That, my good doctor, is entirely irrelevant.”

Watson only makes Holmes wait a few more moments before going over to him. He removes the mask first and then leans around him to reach for the ties, and it’s only after he’s finally loosened the knot that he realizes how close he is to Holmes.

Holmes is still cold from being out in the night, but his breaths against Watson’s collarbones are hot. Watson is close enough to see the faint lines left against Holmes’ skin from the mask, the way his skin is tinged pink from the wind and his hair is damp from that pervasive fog. Watson feels frozen, arms still pressed close to Holmes, rope coiling around his fingers.

Holmes holds his gaze, head cocked to the side ever so slightly; not since they first met has Watson felt like he was being assessed like he is now. It is as though Holmes has just seen some final piece of the puzzle, something he hadn’t quite calculated but which gives him some extra insight into Watson.

Watson pulls away abruptly, looking down and wrapping the rope around his hands, a steady, purposeful motion. He doesn’t look up again until he’s finished, and when he does, Holmes is still staring at him intently, a strange expression on his face. He looks as though he is about to make some sort of pronouncement, so Watson cuts him off.

“How did you find yourself in this situation?” Watson asks, hoping he sounds as wry as he normally would. “If you don’t mind me asking, that is?”

“Just a pesky little thing,” Holmes responds flippantly, standing and removing his cape. “Like I said, entirely irrelevant.”

Watson believes that the story of how the great Sherlock Holmes, alias Bat Man, managed to find himself tied to his favourite chair would be a fascinating tale indeed, but he simply places the rope on the table and takes his leave.

***

Later that afternoon Watson is surprised to find a young lady sitting in the drawing room, dressed in fine fabrics and giving the impression that she belongs exactly where she is.

“Why, hello,” she says, rising as he enters the room. “You must be Dr. Watson. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Nothing interesting, I’m sure,” Watson replies. “John Watson.” He extends his hand.

“Irene Adler,” the woman responds. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she practically purrs, giving him a sly smile.

“Likewise,” Watson responds, though he is more than a little confused. “If I may ask-”

Irene laughs lightly. “I imagine you’re wondering what it is I’m doing in Mr. Holmes’ study.” She walks along the shelving, running her gloved finger along the books’ spines.

“I am, yes,” Watson agrees. “No disrespect intended, of course.”

“No, of course not,” Irene says, and turns to smile at him. “You don’t seem the type at all. Mr. Holmes and I have unfinished business, if you will.” Watson may imagine it, but it almost seems as though she glances down at the rope still sitting on the table as she says this.

“Would you like me to see if he’s in?” Watson asks, trying to be polite as he can even through his wariness.

Irene gives her little tinkle of a laugh again. “I believe he is aware that I’m here, Doctor, but thank you.”

***

After Irene has left the mansion in a sweep of fine fabric, Watson finds Holmes sitting in his favourite chair, gazing out the window.

“She seems a curious woman,” he says, hoping Holmes will not be offended.

“That she is,” Holmes replies, turning to look at him. “Something of an enigma as well.”

“She mentioned that you had unfinished business?”

“Ms Adler and I almost always have unfinished business, Watson,” Holmes says, and his gaze snaps back to the window as Ms Adler walks down to a waiting carriage.

“And why is that, if I may ask?” Holmes seems transfixed, however, and his eyes stay locked on the stately figure below as Watson waits for an answer. Watson finds himself frustrated at Holmes’ lack of attention – who is this mysterious woman, and what does she mean to Holmes? – and leaves without another word.

***

The next evening Holmes surprises Watson – and London’s socialites – by hosting an impromptu party. Watson spends the day trying to stay out of the way of the many cooks and hired help bustling around the mansion. He doesn’t see Holmes at all, and so has no chance to ask him about the mysterious Irene Adler or the reason for the party; it seems odd that Holmes would choose to miss a night of rounds in favour of making small talk with people he’s said he despises.

The first he actually sees of Holmes is after the party has begun. Watson is sitting at the edge of the room, observing the mingling, when Holmes suddenly appears at his side.

“There is someone I believe you should meet,” Holmes says, and tugs Watson through the crowds, hand warm on his wrist, to where a pretty young woman is sitting by the window. “Doctor John Watson, allow me to introduce Miss Mary Morstan.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Watson says, shooting Holmes a questioning look.

“Well, I’ll leave you two to it!” Holmes smiles at Watson and disappears into the crowd again.

Despite Watson’s frustration with Holmes’ odd behavior, Mary is a lovely conversationalist, and Watson decides to push all thoughts of Holmes out of his head and attempt to enjoy his evening. He pointedly ignores the strange looks Holmes continues giving him and Mary throughout the night. They have been talking for perhaps an hour when suddenly the lights go out; there are shrieks around the room, and then murmurs of confusion, a quiet hum that is broken only by a single loud scream. “My jewels!”

This is followed by further screams of the same nature, and Mary grasps Watson’s arm; he’d hazard a guess that her other hand has gone to the jewels at her own neck.

By the time the lamps are back on, Holmes is nowhere in sight. Watson excuses himself and rushes through the throngs of panicked people to find Holmes in his study, already wearing the cape. “I assume you’re going to find the perpetrator?”

“You assume correctly,” Holmes says, placing the mask over his face. “Please go enjoy a drink or two, Watson; I doubt I’ll require any medical attention in the morning.”

“Jewel thieves are not known for violence,” Watson agrees, though as Holmes slips out the window and into the night, he cannot help but feel a twinge of worry.

***

“Apparently the Catwoman is ever elusive,” Watson muses, glancing at Holmes. “She escaped with the diamond and left the Bat Man floundering in her wake.”

Holmes doesn’t look up from his papers. “Floundering, really?”

Watson smiles. “That is how this eloquent reporter describes it, yes. Bat Man was apparently powerless to stop her.”

Holmes makes a small noise around his cup of tea. “How unlike him,” he replies casually, but Watson sees the hint of a frown.

Watson finishes the article and closes the paper, sipping his tea as he gazes out the window. “It is a funny coincidence, isn’t it?”

Holmes looks up from his papers, fixing Watson with a stare. “What is?”

“The way the mysterious Ms Adler seems to be in town when the Catwoman stages a particularly elaborate heist.”

Holmes smiled slightly, turning back to his papers. “Your powers of deduction are progressing quite nicely, Watson.”

****

Watson has tea with Mary a number of times over the next few weeks, pleasant encounters that leave him with a smile on his face. Mary is a charming girl. His visits are overshadowed, however, by the strange gloomy way Holmes stalks around the house whenever Watson is to leave to meet Mary. It is truly baffling considering how insistent Holmes was that Watson should meet Mary in the first place, and even more so because Watson continually asks Holmes if he is need of Watson’s services instead. Watson would never intentionally shirk work to court someone, and he tells Holmes as much, but it simply makes Holmes glower further and dismiss him for the afternoon.

****

One evening Holmes calls for Watson from one end of the mansion, and leads him to the highest rooms, pointing out a window across the city. “See?”

There’s a beam of light shining up into the sky, lighting the underside of the heavy clouds hanging above the city. The circle of light has the outline of a bat in the centre. “It’s…fantastic,” Watson says, a little awed as Holmes grins out at the sky. “Where did you find the materials for that? How does it work?”

“I designed it for him. It was actually much simpler than I’d anticipated, finding the materials and assembling it on-site.”

“For who?”

“Police Commissioner Lestrade,” Holmes says, still looking out at the clouds. “Though it’s a wonder he even remembered my instructions long enough to actually utilize it.”

“I see,” Watson says, “And what is its use, precisely?”

“It’s a summons, of sorts,” Holmes replies. “For when he needs the help of the Bat Man.”

“Perhaps you should head out, then?” Watson says, but then he is distracted by a gash on Holmes’ neck, just above his collar. “What’s that?”

Holmes looks at him, sees where he’s gesturing, and tugs his collar up a bit further. “Nothing. Just a slight graze.”

“A slight graze along your neck?” Watson asks, and steps closer to tug down the collar, slide his hand to Holmes’ neck and peer closer to the cut. Holmes shivers at the contact, and Watson is abruptly aware of how close they are. He pulls back. “How did it happen?”

“A knife,” Holmes replies, and Watson cannot help but roll his eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” Watson snaps. “Why didn’t you mention this to me?”

“I told you, it is simply a graze,” Holmes replies icily, and Watson steps closer again, so Holmes is forced to look at him.

“It is ridiculous that you would hire me to keep you healthy and then fail to utilize my services, especially in circumstances where you might sustain serious injury.” Watson tries to sound as stern as he can, but Holmes won’t even look at him.

“Not every miniscule cut needs attending to,” Holmes starts, but Watson pushes him back against the wall, hard enough to get his attention.

“You are not invincible,” he hisses, and the anger he expects is absent from Holmes’ gaze when Holmes looks up at him; instead his eyes are coloured by something darker, and Watson only has a moment to reflect on what a terrible idea this entire situation is before Holmes pulls him down for a kiss.

When Watson had imagined this – something he had only allowed himself to do once or twice, and just briefly – he had assumed it would be tentative, unsure, like the taboo nature would somehow force them to be cautious. Instead it is heated, Holmes’ hands firm at Watson’s neck, nipping at Watson’s lips and jaw. Watson slides his lips across the stubble on Holmes’ chin and down to his neck, biting just near the graze, hard enough that Holmes slams his head back against the wall.

“Watson,” Holmes breathes, “that signal means I am needed urgently.”

“Surely it can wait,” Watson says, breathless, as he undoes the buttons on Holmes’ shirt.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Holmes replies, and his hands are warm against Watson’s skin.

***

Watson awakes feeling sleepy and satisfied, his limbs tired, and turns to see Holmes sleeping beside him. When he turns on the lamp, however, he sees that Holmes’ injuries from last night’s patrol are grave.

It takes hours of steady work by flickering candlelight before Watson is satisfied that Holmes isn’t going to bleed to death. He covers Holmes with a blanket, not wanting to move Holmes to his own room on the other side of the mansion, and begins to clean his supplies.

“You asked me once before why I do this,” Holmes says, words slurred as his voice breaks the silence, and Watson is positive Holmes’ wouldn’t be discussing this with him if it weren’t for the medicine. All of the usual confidence has left his voice. It is obvious to Watson this is something Holmes never discusses. “My parents were once killed in a simple robbery. No rhyme or reason to it, just a senseless murder. That seemed terrifically unjust to me.” Watson stays silent. “My parents were murdered for a few pennies. And the man was never found.” Watson has a flash of the portrait in the stairwell, the two regal people seated in their finest clothes.

There’s silence for a moment, and Watson rests his hand on Holmes’ back, listening to his breathing. “I’m sorry, Holmes.” And that is all there is to say.

***

Watson and Holmes eat breakfast together every morning the same way they have since Watson began working for Holmes, but there is something about it that feels different. Watson looks up over his tea cup one morning to see Holmes simply watching him, and when Watson cocks an eyebrow, Holmes merely smiles at him.

Holmes frequently walks into his bedroom without asking and will hold out his finger for inspection. “It was urgent that I come see you,” Holmes says, and Watson looks up from his notebook incredulously.

“Urgent, really?” he asks, and closes the book when Holmes smirks at him, leaning a little closer.

“You see, I cut myself very badly, Doctor,” Holmes says, and Watson glances down sharply at where Holmes hand has come to rest at Watson’s shoulder.

“What did you cut yourself on?”

“Paper,” Holmes replies, and Watson rolls his eyes.

“Paper, Holmes? Really?”

“Really,” Holmes says, and slides his hand to Watson’s neck, thumb brushing against the edge of his jaw.

“You are aware that you do not need an excuse to come see me,” Watson says, but he’s already tilting his head back so Holmes can lean down and press their lips together.

***

 

A week later Watson is walking home in the late hours of the night, hoping to beat Holmes back to the mansion so he has enough time to ready his supplies, when he hears quick footsteps behind him. That is all the warning he’s given before he is hit hard in the back of the head, and stumbles, reeling, into a building.

He gathers himself quickly enough to count his attackers – three, all in black – before he is hit again, this time by two people at once. He tries to keep the wall at his back so he can avoid any further attacks from behind, and mentally thanks Holmes for his training as he’s able to dodge the next two hits. They go for his leg next, however, and he buckles to the ground in pain as they continuing hitting him, punches to the stomach, the chest, the neck, the face. The largest of the three grabs him by the collar and leans down, and Watson has to blink through blood to try and focus his gaze.

“You let him know we know who he is,” the man growls, grinning at Watson. “We know who he’s hiding under the mask.” Watson is about to respond when the man is suddenly pulled away from him, and he thinks he sees the edge of a cape just before he blacks out.

***

Watson wakes blearily to find himself in his room, Holmes sitting beside the bed. He opens his mouth to say Holmes’ name, but finds himself drifting off again before he can get the words out. When he finally wakes up and feels well enough to keep his eyes open, Holmes gives him one look and leaves the room, returning a few moments later with a doctor. The man asks Watson questions which he answers as best he can, watching Holmes, who is pointedly ignoring his gaze. When the doctor is finished and proclaims Watson to be well on the road to recovery, Holmes thanks him and escorts him out the door.

Watson doesn’t see him again until a few hours later when he goes to find him in his study. It is no longer quite as imposing as it was when Watson first arrived at the mansion, but he is still wary as he watches Holmes, waiting for his reaction.

“You heard what they said,” he says, and it’s not really a question. “About knowing your identity.”

“Yes,” Holmes says, and then leaves it at that.

When Watson starts to talk again, to try and find out what, exactly, Holmes is thinking, Holmes cuts him off. “Doctor,” he says, “You are dismissed. Free to find employment elsewhere.”

Watson gapes at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I will be more than happy to provide you with references, perhaps even recommend you to a few friends,” Holmes says, looking at a point over Watson’s shoulder. “You are, after all, quite a good doctor.”

“Then what possible reason could you have to dismiss me?” Watson snaps, and he steps close to Holmes, close enough that Holmes is forced to look at him. His gaze is devoid of an expression, and Watson feels the frustration and confusion in him change to anger. He pushes against Holmes, hard, just once, and then suddenly finds himself slammed against the bookshelves, spines digging into his back.

Watson has always known that Holmes is strong, has seen him in fights and knows the feel of his muscles from the time he’s spent sewing him back together. To have Holmes’ strength used against him, however, is another thing entirely.

“You are a liability to me,” Holmes says slowly, and if Watson didn’t know him better he’d think Holmes sounded calm, in control.

When Watson doesn’t answer, Holmes lets go and takes a few steps back, running a hand through his hair – another tell that he is not quite as together as he’d like to appear – and then he fixes Watson with a cool gaze. “I am no longer in need of your services.”

Watson considers staying and arguing further, wants to take as long as it needs to convince Holmes that he’s making a mistake, but Holmes is resolutely staring out the window, pipe in his mouth, smoke clouding around his head.

Watson picks up his cane from where it had fallen and walks toward the door, trying to regain some of his composure. Something clenches tight at his chest, a heavy feeling of regret that he doesn’t think will ever disappear.

“Wait,” Holmes says, and Watson feels a spark of hope as he turns around. Holmes walks to the shelves and picks up a small box, one Watson had never noticed before. He places it in Watson’s hands. “For when you inevitably propose to her,” he says softly, and Watson can only blink at him in disbelief.

“I don’t understand you, Holmes,” Watson whispers.

“You yourself are perfectly easy to understand, Doctor,” Holmes replies curtly, and then sweeps past Watson out of the room. “You can see yourself out, yes?” Watson watches him leave and stands there for a moment, looking around at the study, before taking his leave.

Watson resolutely does not look back at the house as the carriage draws away from the curb, just gazes out the opposite window and tries not to dwell. It’s not until he’s halfway to the hotel that he remembers the box. He slips it out of his pocket and opens it to find a lovely gold ring, relatively plain but with a small jewel set in the centre. As he turns it over in his hands he notices the inscription on the centre, and when he peers closer he can read it: ‘To Louisa, with my deepest love – Phillip.’ Watson stares down at the ring for a moment, running his finger along the inscription, before slipping it back into the box and closing the lid firmly.  


**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/profile)[**hw09_exchange**](http://hw09-exchange.livejournal.com/)  
>  Many thanks to my three betas - [](http://queerlyobscure.livejournal.com/profile)[**queerlyobscure**](http://queerlyobscure.livejournal.com/) , [](http://extemporally.livejournal.com/profile)[**extemporally**](http://extemporally.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://tailoredshirt.livejournal.com/)**tailoredshirt** \- for all their help and support. Without them this wouldn't exist at all. Title taken from Jeph Loeb's intro to The Long Halloween (which is awesome, by the way). Also, there's a line in here that I sort of stole from Hush, which is also by Jeph Loeb.


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